


Memorial

by JustJasper



Category: Mass Effect
Genre: Destroy Ending, Fainting, Friendship, Funeral, Gen, Hospital, Injury, Medical issues, Recovery, memorial
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-29
Updated: 2014-01-29
Packaged: 2018-01-10 12:52:45
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,304
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1159954
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JustJasper/pseuds/JustJasper
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>6 months after the war ends, Shepard is recovering from injury and insists on going to a memorial service.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Memorial

**Author's Note:**

> Learn more about Andromeda Shepard [on my tumblr](http://justjasper.tumblr.com/tagged/andromeda%20shepard).

Six months after the fall of the Reapers, there had been a lot of memorial services and funerals. Many had been delayed until essential repairs had been made to infrastructure, and many more had been put back until Andromeda Shepard, the saviour of the galaxy, was well enough to attend. She dressed in her black Alliance uniform, with help from the blueish hanar nurse that had been tending to her in the last few days.

“This one humbly suggests you forgo the memorial service today, in favour of rest. This one does not believe you well enough to leave the proximity of immediate medical attention.”

“I'm going stir crazy,” she muttered as she buttoned her uniform. “Thank you for your professional concern, though,” she added, an attempt to be respectful to the nurse while still going against their advice. The medical professionals of the Citadel and across the galaxy were swamped, treating the wounded from the war.

“This one admits to being concerned personally, also,” the hanar said in the dreamy tone their communication apparatus provided. “Commander Shepard is a hero to this one, and to its kin.”

“I'll be fine. You're passing me to good hands.”

Those hands belonged to Miranda Lawson, who turned up at her apartment in a black dress with her hair pulled back into a neat bun. She looked older for it, and tired from what Shepard knew were great responsibilities, not least the first three months of Andromeda's medical care after she'd been pulled from the rubble of the crucible, using her experience on resurrecting her through the Lazarus project to save her from another death.

The hanar nurse provided a wheelchair and Shepard reluctantly sat down.

“You still want to stand at the service?” Miranda asked as she took the handles to steer.

“Of course.”

“They have much better chairs you know, ones you could get yourself around in.”

“I don't need a chair, I just have to conserve my energy,” Shepard said, and she could sense Miranda giving her a look.

The service, for humans who had deserted Cerberus to help the Alliance and lost their lives in the process, was taking place in a beautiful part of the Presidium that had been newly landscaped with plants from all across the galaxy, instead of the usual arrangement of different races taking their turn at having their native plants on display. Earth oaks were covered in translucent blue Thessian ivy, and meadows of Tuchankan poppies grew in harmony with a delicate white salarian bloom. A little sentimental, Shepard thought, as there was still a lot of tension between those races, but the Citadel had a penchant for putting a glossy face on things.

Andromeda put her chair aside when they reached the service, and with the aid of an omnicane, teetered to stand with the crowd. She was aware of the eyes on her, and stood straight and still, even though her legs and her back already ached. Miranda looked sideways at her, concern clearly showing on her face, but as the service began she faced front and showed her respects.

After twenty minutes, Shepard was in agony. She wanted desperately to listen and concentrate on the words of the speaker who was talking about the bravery of these fallen heroes, scientists, technicians, who had risked all to help the galaxy and had sadly lost their lives. Her legs and back were spasming with pain, and the arm supporting her on the omnicane was cramping hard. She had pushed herself too far, and now there was no going back.

“Miranda,” she said under her breath as spots began to appear at the corner of her vision. Miranda made a low sound of acknowledgement without turning to look at her. “I'm going to pass out.” She looked over then, just as Shepard felt herself losing consciousness, blinking into blackness.

She woke up in the familiar surroundings of her citadel apartment, where her bedroom was full of medical machinery since Chakwas had forced Huerta Memorial to release her and continue her treatments at home, determined that it would speed her recovery. Machinery beeped and whirred in a way that had become familiar, and Miranda was sat at her bedside looking absently into the middle distance, some of her hair having come loose from the bun.

Andromeda made a sound, bringing the woman's attention to her, her mouth pulled taut with worry.

“I don't have many friends,” Miranda said. “You, Jacob, Jack... that's about it.”

Shepard hummed groggily, registering the intravenous tube in her arm giving her fluids as Miranda reached out and took Shepard's hand in both her own.

“Please don't die.” Her voice was shaky, her eyes glistening. “I really need you not to die.”

“I'm not going to die,” she said, and though she felt drained and weak, she smiled. “I'm getting better.”

Miranda gave a shrug of a laugh. “Chakwas is going to kill me for letting you stand there.”

“She doesn't have to know.”

“Everyone knows,” Miranda sigh, inconspicuously wiping at her eye with one wrist. “The memorial was televised, your fainting spell went out to the Sol system live.”

Andromeda groaned. She'd wanted the details of her medical recovery to stay under wraps for now, even though she got daily requests for interviews about it.

“Don't worry, I already put out a statement on your behalf saying that you are striving to recover and are doing well.”

“Am I?” Shepard asked. “Doing well?”

Miranda looked at her for a while, lips thin with worry again. “We had to put you back together from pieces when you were pulled out of the crucible,” she said. “It wasn't as bad as before, you were still technically alive, but you were a mess. You're still a wreck, Shepard.”

“Oh, thanks,” Andromeda said, feining offence.

“I know you hate being housebound, but I need you to suck it up and get through it, or you're going to die before me, and I don't think I can face a world without you in it.”

“Miranda you're genetically engineered, you're going to live to at least 180, I'll be dead way before that.”

“Shepard, the Lazarus project likely extended your life. Hadn't you thought of that?”

“I guess,” she shrugged; she'd tried not to think about it. “So I'm going to outlive you?”

“Most probably,” Miranda chuckled. “You were nearly thirty when you died, and as keen as The Illusive Man was to have you put back exactly the same, it's hard to age cells, so I think you regenerated body wasn't quite as worn.”

“I guess a lot of my old aches were gone after that,” she mused. “But I was ready to go as soon as I woke up then, now I can't even stand up for ten minutes.”

“The Lazarus project was active for two years, and had months still to go,” Miranda reasoned. “I could arrange to have you put into a medical coma for another year and a half, until you're completely fit again, but I figured even if it was hard you'd want to be awake this time, as soon as the worst was over.”

“You're right,” Shepard sighed, as she pushed herself up and sat gingerly on the bed. The idea of waking up in two years with the galaxy changed all around her again did not sound pleasant; the three months she'd been unconscious after being pulled from the crucible had been bad enough.

“Rest.”

“I will, I'm just going to record a message for the people at the service with my apologies for fainting in the middle of it,” she explained, adjusting her rolled up sleeve above her drip and arranging her collar.

“You never stop, do you?” Miranda said, a mixture of awe and teasing in her voice.

“Not yet.”


End file.
